My son is 24 and lives with me and my husband (his stepdad). We’ve been supporting him since he left school at 16. He started using cannabis as a teenager, greatly influenced by his father (heavy drug user, alcoholic and serial adulterer).

Psychotic episodes began at 18 and he was committed to a mental health hospital for two months. Diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and anxiety disorder, he was given repeat prescriptions for medication — which he still refuses to take. He can’t hold down a job for any longer than a few weeks

Our home has a small, self-contained annexe. We thought it an ideal living arrangement for him, in return for some contribution to board and bills, particularly as his girlfriend now lives there.

We could earn around £600 a month rental income, which would help our retirement — but, of course, we’re not getting a penny. The girlfriend isn’t making much effort in her job search.

We only want a small contribution from them — far less than they’d have to pay commercially. My husband and I have smallish pensions. Supporting them is putting a considerable strain on us — and not just financially.

I thought I’d always be there for my son. Now my family all tell me tough love is needed. But I’m unable to separate his behaviour from his mental health issues. Where does one end and the other begin? I love my son, but really dislike him. He’s unreasonable, manipulative, controlling, a liar and hates authority in any form.

Just like his father. He refuses to consider work he considers beneath him, and flies into an uncontrolled rage if challenged.

He threatens to commit suicide if I don’t give him money and self-harms in front of me in his rage — banging his head and cutting his arms. I’ve tried to persuade him he needs professional help but he refuses. I paid for private counselling — to no avail.

I’ve helped him gain employment and get a place on the Prince’s Trust programme, but nothing works out. I even have to make an appointment to see him — to fit in around his internet gaming!

All this puts a strain on my marriage. My husband is supportive but has no time for my son, who won’t talk to him.

We’re happy and want to live in peace, but I can’t bring myself to kick my son out.

Desperate, we went to Relate. The counsellor said there is nothing wrong with our marriage, but I need to learn to ‘divorce’ my son. This makes me feel like a complete failure as a mother. Can you help?

EVELYN

This week, Bel advises a reader whose 24-year-old son lives at home with her and her husband, his step-dad. The mother explained how they've been supporting him since he left school at 16

From time to time in the past, I have featured a similar problem — and always find them very difficult. As a daughter, as well as a mother, I can identify (for reasons too private for here), so I want you to know I understand.

Most parents like to think they’d always offer an endless fountain of unconditional love to their offspring — only to be devastated when the terrible day comes and the well runs dry. You sum it up with simple, heartbreaking honesty when you write: ‘I love my son but really dislike him.’

Is there such a thing as unconditional love? The answer must be no — because if, for example, you discover that the person you thought you loved had done something utterly vile (murder, to name one extreme), you might well realise the limits of love.

In the end, moral revulsion and/or shame can all but obliterate a memory of deep affection. And it does sound to me as if you are reaching that stage now.

Let’s be honest: your son is the product of a toxic marriage and now you’re clearly seeing your ex-husband mirrored in his nature and his actions.

That man made you bitterly unhappy, and now his son is doing the same thing. In your uncut letter, you tell me that perceiving the similarity (genetic connection) between the two men makes you doubt your son’s behaviour is entirely due to his mental health issues. Whatever the truth, surely you cannot sustain this level of self-sacrifice.

Any parent will understand your conflict. But most people will also find it hard to believe that you have put up with this young man sponging (with his girlfriend) and being abusive for so long.

His behaviour may be the result of a cluster of factors — but it’s still intolerable. What’s more, not only are you not helping him, there is a lot at stake for you.

If, one day, your husband were to snap and leave, then your resentment of this difficult, damaged son would be absolute. The Relate counsellor was right.

Y ou cannot sacrifice the marriage for the sake of the son. You and his father divorced; now it is time to make the break with your son.

Action must be taken. I would downsize — putting the house on the market as soon as possible. Then you won’t be kicking him out (as you put it), but making him move on.

I would also talk to the girlfriend in private and ask her to help him take control of his life.

They won’t do that while under your roof, so the best way to help would be to make them take responsibility at last.

Dear Bel,

I appreciate some people may not think this is a proper life problem and I will fully understand if you feel your valuable time is being wasted, but of course there are reasons for me asking.

My question is short and simple: is 100 per cent trust really possible or even right when in a relationship with someone?

Or is it too high an expectation and asking too much of them — and therefore is demanding such trust just plain selfishness?

I really don’t know and my mind is going round in circles because I simply can’t come to a conclusion. I would therefore find any theories you can put forward — as well as your own wise opinion — helpful.

SARA

Trust is certainly at the heart of many life problems on this page, and there must be a thorny personal dilemma behind this intriguing email.

Since the earliest times, philosophers have wrestled with the notion of Truth and Falsehood, with the ancient theologian Augustine of Hippo writing that falsehood occurs ‘when something is thought to be which is not’.

So when the falsehood is believed by someone who trusts, that trust is abused — even if they don’t discover the deception. If I believe someone is good, but that goodness is a mask, then I am deceived. If I find out, I will find it hard to place future trust in others.

Hard, but not impossible. If trust is abused, it’s only sensible to learn from that experience and be wary.

But the cynic takes it a step further and scowls, ‘No one can be trusted’ — and that bleak statement is clearly wrong. Many people can be trusted; the world happens to be full of honourable souls. At the beginning of Shakespeare’s All’s Well That Ends Well, the Countess gives plenty of advice to her departing son Bertram (as mothers will!), including this gem: ‘Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.’ If we could all live by that, the world would be a happier place.

But she doesn’t say ‘trust everybody’. That would be reckless. Betrayal is as much a part of human experience as is the deep loyalty of soldiers to their mates and happy spouses to their partners.

You ask ‘is 100 per cent trust possible or even right when in a relationship?’

Surely it depends on what’s happened before? None of us enters a new relationship with a clean slate. If you’ve been hurt, if your trust has been abused, self-preservation should make you careful.

Sadly, some people (mostly women, I think) fall into a pattern of trusting serial cheats, while their friends watch in disbelief. Why do they trust it will be all right this time? Honestly, I don’t know. Nor do I understand why women are conned into sending money to men they’ve met on holiday or online. Yes, they’re needy of love — but to trust their savings to a stranger? That’s not trust, but culpable gullibility.

I feel dubious about 100 per cent trust, because I suspect that, if the circumstances were right, even the most upright person could be unfaithful. That’s why I think couples are wise not to spend too much time apart. You never know.

Yes, I am cautious, sceptical … but that doesn’t rule out optimism.

It is only wise to be aware of all the faults in human nature, but that doesn’t mean you can’t love — or forgive. If you discover your spouse has had an affair and ended it, you can forgive — as long as both of you realise that trust, once broken, can never be restored. Forgive and forget? I don’t think so.

So, Sara, I think you must love with eyes wide open, not expect the one you love to be perfect — and trust (meaning hope) that when human beings accommodate each others’ weaknesses, then they can stumble into joy.

And finally... when words are a force for good

As you read this, I shall be in Glasgow, speaking at the 40th anniversary conference of the charity Sands. It is an important voice for all those who have experienced the grief of stillbirth or neonatal death.

How this came about is my story — which I share here (and it happens to be 49 years since my first article in the press) as evidence of the power of journalism.

When my second son was stillborn at full term in November 1975, I poured my misery into a long letter to a friend — which I turned into an article I sent ‘on spec’ to the Guardian newspaper. They published it on January 8, 1976 — and it opened a floodgate. Back then, nobody talked about stillbirth.

Now somebody had. Hundreds of people wrote to me (and to the paper) — one of whom was a psychiatric social worker, Hazelanne Lewis.

Bel reads all letters but regrets she cannot enter into personal correspondence.

She, too, had suffered — and now reached out through the press, with a view to turning the private grief into something bigger, more useful. We communicated … and to cut a long story short, this resulted in the foundation of The Stillbirth Society, now called Sands.

Meanwhile, my original article had been reprinted in the Los Angeles Times, where it made waves again. I went on to do interviews and broadcast on the effects of a stillbirth — how people had to understand the permanent nature of this particular bereavement, how the medical profession had to change attitudes, and so on. It’s quite strange to look back and realise how little people knew.

Nowadays there’s a much greater understanding of bereavement (although still not enough) in society — and I’m glad to have played a part.

Today, Hazelanne Lewis and I are both keynote speakers, as new patrons of Sands. There is much work to be done to improve maternity care.

You know, 43 years ago, when my son was born dead, I vowed to turn grief into something positive. Now my life has come full circle — but wouldn’t have done so without the extraordinary power of the written word.